Fear
by threesummerdays
Summary: "'You're the mole.'"  The words hang heavy in the cool air surrounding the bench. It's another wall he's putting up between them."  Oneshot - Harry and Ruth on the bench.  Theoretically set sometime in Series 9.


**A/N: **My greatest fears for series 9: Ruth being a mole and she and Harry not getting together. So this is my remedy for that... assume it's a bit further in the series. Hope you like it! :)

* * *

"You're the mole."

The words hang heavy in the cool air surrounding the bench. It's another wall he's putting up between them. As if it's not enough that she's turned town his proposal. As if it's not enough that he's thrown himself back into his work. As if they're not suffering enough. So when she speaks, it's with cool, clear certainty.

"How _dare_ you."

He faces her. His face is lined with emotions she's seen before, and often, but never simultaneously directed at her. Anger, frustration, lust, sadness, but most importantly disappointment. It's the disappointment that pushes her over the edge.

"How _dare _you, you bastard." Her voice is more determined than before. "How can you even _think_ that?"

"You're the one who brings us the information, aren't you?" he spits. He's not used to being this angry with her. Hurt, yes. Sad, of course. But _angry_? He's never felt this about her and it's making him uneasy.

"I'm an _analyst_," she hisses. "It's my job to get information."

"I asked Tariq if he could verify your sources. He couldn't."

Her nose twitches. "So you decided that it must mean I'm the one endangering the team?"

"I'm not going to lose another one," he says, his voice dangerously low.

She sits for a moment, and he can tell she's trying to contain her anger. When she finally speaks, her words are ice. "You think I wanted Ros to die? You think I helped plan her death? That I want to endanger Lucas and Beth and Dmitri?"

He doesn't answer, and she continues, "Then it's a good thing I refused you, Harry, because you clearly don't know me at all."

Anger rises up to his throat again, and he's ready to raise his voice when a mother and her son walk by their bench. They both fall quiet and watch the pair walk hand-in-hand down the Embankment. Once the two spooks are alone again, Ruth speaks.

"I'm sorry, Harry. I didn't mean that." Her words are so soft he wants to believe them, but he's still against her.

He pauses for a few more seconds, then says, "What am I supposed to think, Ruth?"

She turns further away from him. "I don't know, Harry."

He falls quiet for another moment, then says, "Was Blake really in on it?"

He looks so close to the edge that she softens momentarily. "Yes." It's a whisper in the wind. "I'm sorry for that, Harry. Really."

He turns back toward the river. "So am I."

They're silent again for several minutes. Finally, she speaks up, shifting her hands to pull at her gloves in her lap.

"I'd never betray the service," she says, "betray you. I just… I couldn't, Harry."

Against his better judgment, his heart leaps. He knows how hard it is for her to say that out loud, to admit, in their own odd little way, that she loves him. And the guilt he feels for being angry at her – this woman who's given everything for him, who's only just been selfish because he wanted too much too soon – is building up inside him and is ready to burst. His chest feels like lead and he can't focus.

She sees his distraction and she takes advantage of the moment. She takes a breath, counts to five, releases, and takes the dive.

"I'm not being honest with you," she says. "About several things."

He looks up and she sees the disappointment's back. He still thinks she's the mole, she can tell by the crease between his eyes – the one she so sorely wants to smooth with her kisses. She can bear the distance he's put between them, but she can't let him think she's the mole, she needs to set him right.

"I'm not the mole, but…" She doesn't know how to say it. "I have a contact who is."

"A mole?"

"Yes." She nods emphatically as she holds his eye contact, then suddenly looks down at her gloves. "He's in the Chinese government. I met him while I was in Cyprus. He was there on some government business, so I did some digging when we heard China could be involved in Nightingale."

He's looking at her again, all the disappointment and anger falling away, only to be replaced utterly and completely with love. "You're blackmailing him," he says softly.

"Yes," she whispers. It's as though if she doesn't say it out loud, it's not quite so bad. "He's been supplying me with information. They're on his trail, I'm sure. He won't help us for much longer, I think."

"But they could…" But he doesn't finish the thought. He doesn't need to. They both know the dangers of the job, know all too well what can happen. She clears her throat.

"I've been careful," she says quietly. "When they figure it out, I'll know. I'll have a bit of time to… to put things in order…"

He reaches over and grasps her hand. "Ruth," he says, squeezing gently. "We'll keep you safe. We're not up against Mace this time. We have enough on the Chinese to protect the whole service. Maybe even the Home Secretary, though that could be a stretch."

She chokes out a laugh and he realizes that she's starting to cry. He's been in the service long enough to know it's always a balance of fear and laughter, trying to keep it in the grey zone of surviving. He's studying her profile when she turns to him suddenly and lets out a watery smile.

"I'm not afraid," she says, and she squeezes his hand. He feels the tears stinging his eyes, too, and as he starts to say her name, she bows her head and breaks down. The tears pour down her cheeks and she squeezes his hand tighter and tighter until he's not sure he has any feeling left. But he keeps watching her, trying to convince himself that she'll be alright, that nothing would have stopped her anyway.

She turns her face back to him again and smiles shakily. "Sorry," she murmurs, wiping tears away with her free hand. "Such a mess," she adds. He's still watching her, and she smiles more convincingly at him.

"I haven't been afraid for a long time." Somehow, he's surprised, and yet not. He can't remember her ever really being afraid, except perhaps the EERIE drill so many years ago. But even then, through the fear, she stood firmly behind Tom and kept the team together. So when she lowers her head again, he waits until she meets his gaze because he knows now that she's terrified.

"I was afraid when they came after Nico and me," she says softly, chokingly. "I was terrified they'd hurt him. And when I knew it wasn't a safe house. And when I saw you." He looks away, but she doesn't force him to face her for this – it's easier for her to say to the river. "It reminded me of Cotterdam and the barge and… and I was sure I was going to lose you again, and I wasn't sure I could bear it."

Of all the things she could say, he never expected that. He can't help but notice her omission of George from her fears – he knows she feels guilty about it, but she doesn't say she was afraid for him. He thinks that, just maybe, his heart is going to float out of his chest because he knows now that she turned him down because she loves him, because she can't forgive herself, but mostly because she can't bear the thought of them losing each other one more time. And he finds a bit of him that's grateful that she's strong enough for the both of them. But he knows she needs to say this herself, so he keeps quiet, even though the urge to gather her in his arms and kiss her senseless is starting to overwhelm him.

She looks back at him now and he sees the cool determination of the woman he loves. "It's for the best," she says firmly. "The intelligence we receive is invaluable."

"But so are you," he says, equally firm.

She blushes slightly and looks at her hands, one free, one intertwined with his. It doesn't escape either one that this is how they've lived their time together – half in, half out – one part independence, one part pure reliance on the other. And no matter how much they want to separate completely, to make the other safe by detachment, they can't. They know they'll always be brushing fingers, touching elbows, offering lifts, delivering coffee, calling for late night tête-à-têtes.

And somehow, though she's been fighting it for so long, it's comforting to know that no matter what happens, he'll be there. To know that at her funeral, as long as he makes it past her, she'll have one person in the crowd who really, truly misses her.

The thought prompts a new wave of tears and she finds herself pressing her face into his collar. He doesn't move, cherishing the contact, wanting her to empty herself of her fears. It's so hard to be alone when you have the feeling that someone's always just behind you. So as she weeps into his shoulder, her own shoulders shaking from the effort, he draws his hand out of hers and places his whole arm around her, pulling her closer. She grasps at him again and doesn't fight.

She's so tired, she realizes as she breathes in his utterly Harry smell. She's so tired that she almost thinks she's ready to die. But then she takes another breath and she thinks of all the missed opportunities and the words she's never really said, no matter how often she implies them. And just as suddenly as her tears came on her, they disappear. It's not her time, she realizes. Not yet. Because she still has work to do: a villain to catch, a heart to heal, a man to love. So much to do that it can't possibly be her turn for the file to close.

So she lifts her head from his neck where she's buried it and looks boldly at him, her eyes still shining and red-rimmed. He's looking over the river, but at her movement, he looks down at her. She's moved one hand toward his heart while the other grips his collar still.

"I'm not afraid," she says again, and this time he believes her. He moves his free hand to cover hers that's resting on his heart. His fingers lock with hers and he draws her knuckles to his lips, pressing gently, kissing her so softly she almost cries again.

"My Ruth," he whispers against her skin, curling his fingers around hers. "You really are a born spook, aren't you?"

She shifts slightly on the bench to face him. He looks at her, knows what she wants, isn't sure if she really wants it. She nods, smiles, and leans in, cradling his face in her free hand.

"I'm not afraid," she repeats against his lips, and kisses him.

It's the sweetest, most emotional kiss they've ever experienced. He moves his mouth gently over hers, memorizing each crease, each taste, as she leans further into him, giving in to the desire she's had since that goodbye. They're finding each other for the first time, understanding that conventional really isn't for them – maybe not a little house in Sussex, but a flat in London might do. They're realizing that life is too short – but they don't understand that now because someone's dead, nor is it because they're afraid of being alone – they understand because somehow, through this kiss, they know that there wouldn't have been enough time for them even if they had begun from that first moment she walked onto the Grid. Because every second is too short and an eternity locked in each other's arms would never completely fulfill their need for one another.

In the same unity that they do everything, they pull apart and she smiles gently as she realizes that they're still holding hands.

"I'll keep you safe," he whispers into her ear as he pulls her tight to him again, needing to feel her next to him.

"I know." It's so simple and so true.

Because now she does know. She loves him and as complicated as that makes her life, she wouldn't let it go. Not anymore.

Because when he's there with her, there's nothing to fear.


End file.
